Masterpiece
by Onesimus42
Summary: Musings on a marriage. Posted originally on Tumblr.
1. The past

**_Posting here mostly so I can keep up with it. If you've been on Tumblr, you've seen it and can feel free to ignore._**

Charles felt like an interloper. A peeping Tom. As though he was eavesdropping with eyes that took in a picture worth ten thousand words. He hadn't meant to invade their privacy, but he had been drawn by the sound of a dish smashing and his father's loud curse. He reached his parents' bedroom just a few steps behind his mother, but something made him hold back to observe rather than interfere.

He watched as his mother took his father's hand in her own, smoothing away the tremors that plagued him. He watched as she pressed that hand to her cheek, and he watched as his father's eyes softened and breathing slowed. He watched as she took the edges of his father's shirt and carefully drew it together, working the buttons slowly and deliberately. He watched as his father's hands, no longer trembling, rested on his mother's hips drawing her closer as he gazed at her in open adoration. He watched his mother knot his father's tie, lip drawn between her teeth in concentration but still with a smile tugging at the edges. Finally, he watched as his father leaned forward to place a gentle kiss first on his mother's forehead and then on her lips. It was then that he retreated to leave them to their privacy, tearing his eyes from this portrait of selfless love.

He watched and he wished. He wished that someday he could find someone like his mother to love. Someone who would see all his failings and frailties and love him anyway. Someone who would see it not a burden to care but a privilege. Someone that he could adore as his father so clearly adored his mother. Someone with whom he could create his own masterpiece of love. Perhaps, someday.

 _ **And next the Chelsie...**_


	2. The now

_**And the final bit of this little ficlet**_

The bowl shattered loudly as soon as it struck the floor, not nearly as loudly as the curse that came from his mouth, however. He regretted both immediately, ashamed of his loss of control. He regretted it more when his wife rushed through the door breathlessly, eyes wide with fear.

"Charles?! What's happened? Are you..." Her voice trailed off when he swung to her with eyes blazing with an anger that was much easier to direct at her rather than himself.

"I'm fine," he snapped, "There's no need to come running at every little noise. I'm not completely useless. Not yet." Although he knew that he was.

Regret washed over him again. Could he do nothing but break and destroy? Still he couldn't quite find it within himself to apologize.

As usual, she didn't take the easy route and answer his anger with her own fury. Instead, she drew herself in, straightening herself to her full height, and studied him steadily.

At first, he met her gaze defiantly, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, but then his own guilty conscience made him drop his eyes to the floor. She didn't deserve this, neither his anger or him. She didn't deserve to be saddled with a man who couldn't even...

His thoughts trailed off when he realized that she was now right in front of him. She took his trembling, traitorous hand from his side and smoothed away the tremors. When the trembling subsided, never disappeared-it was never fully absent anymore, she pressed his hand to her cheek. His heart swelled as he looked into her eyes. She knew. She understood. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly in a smile which she answered with her own watery one. He brushed the tear that spilled over her lid with his thumb and her smile widened. Then, she dropped her hands to the buttons of his shirt that had proved too difficult for him this morning, the cause of his fit of temper.

His hands dropped to her sides, thumbs caressing the angles of her hips and fingers splayed over her bottom. Watching her like this, caring for him without complaint, his heart swelled with all the things he wanted to say-I love you. I adore you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for writing these final chapters of my life with me. Instead he flexed his fingers to draw her closer. She looked up at him and he bent to kiss first her forehead, then her cheek, and finally her lips, pouring all his unspoken adoration into her.

He lifted his head only so that he could wrap his arms around her and draw her close, as close as he possibly could, then a little closer.

"Mr. Carson," she admonished, voice muffled by his chest, "We'll never get your shirt buttoned if you won't let me go."

He chuckled softly, "We can't have that, can we Mrs. Carson?"

He relaxed his hold and stepped back just a bit. Her hands went to the buttons again, but she hesitated, bottom lip pulled between her teeth. Then instead of working on the next button, her hands dropped to the last one, which she worked free.

Looking down in surprise, he asked, "Elsie?"

Her eyes were filled with love when she looked up at him. "We've nowhere to be today, Charlie. It's as easy to unbutton as it is to button."

His eyebrows climbed and his grin widened, "I suppose it is, if you'll promise to help me after?"

Her smile widened and she smoothed her hands over his chest, pushing his shirt off his shoulders, "Always, Charlie, always."

And that was the moment that he knew he'd found his own masterpiece.

 ** _Please note that I am not in any way saying this is a masterpiece, but love can be._**


	3. The completed picture

**_The final bit. Elsie's thoughts._**

Making love. Elsie thought that was the perfect way to refer to what they'd just enjoyed, as she lay with her head pillowed on her husband's chest, listening to him hum. She'd thought it odd at first that he hummed after, until she realized that he only hummed when he was filled with joy. And wasn't that what love should be about? Filling each other with joy.

It was true that love was made. When she was a girl, she only really knew of love from books. She thought it was something one could just fall into, like one might fall in a puddle of water. It wasn't until Charles, her Charlie, that she realized love was made, like drawing a picture, line by line.

They'd begun making love ages ago, long before either of them would have thought of joining in this way (although she wouldn't answer for her dreams). The first lines had been drawn the first time he'd offered to share the last bit of wine with her at the end of a day. More lines had been added the first time she noticed him rubbing his temples at dinner and left a Beecham's powder on his desk.

The first hints of color had been added when she dared to ask him if he'd ever wished for another life, and he'd returned the question to her. The colors became deeper and richer with the shadows of his possibly leaving for Haxby and then the relief when he stayed. The deepest shadows were added when she feared she might leave him in an entirely different way, but a new brilliance came when she heard him sing in joyful relief at knowing she would remain.

She'd truly seen the truth of what could come when they began searching for a house together, not quite letting herself wish that it could be their home. Still, she could see what the final product could be, and it could be glorious. It could be filled with adoring glances from him and gentle smiles from her. It could be filled with each of them caring for each other, loving each other.

All those 'could be's' became 'would be's' when he asked her to be stuck with him, to be his wife, and not just his companion, but his wife in every way. To live as closely with him as it was possible for two people to live. She had thought then that just meant what they'd just done, but now she realized that making love was so much more.

She made love to him when she lathered his face and carefully shaved him, not willing to risk losing his nose to a few tremors. He made love to her by making her toast, grumbling all the while that the way she liked it lightly toasted was merely warm bread. She made love to him when she cut his slice of apple tart just a little larger than he should really have. He made love to her when he covered her cold feet with a rug and added another lump of coal to the fire, even though she knew he was already too warm.

And finally, they made love in this bed. Their hands brushed over each other, adding brushstrokes. Their lips met and explored, adding nuances of shading and light. And finally, finally, when he pushed into her depths, it wasn't the beginning of making love, but the culmination of a masterpiece.

 _ **The end of the beginning.**_


End file.
